Relics
by memnarch
Summary: Book 1 in the Remembrance Cycle. An ancient evil is awakening on Dominaria, setting planeswalkers searching for powerful artifacts. Meanwhile, war is brewing in Jamuraa, leading a local mage to turn to Tolaria West for help.
1. Prologue

Prologue

Parcher was parched. Or at least, the flamekin equivalent. The irony was not lost on him.

In fact, his race's version of parched was quite the opposite of most other species. He was soaking wet. To most people, an abundance of water would almost certainly ensure their continued survival. To a living elemental of rock and flame such as he, it was a long slow death.

At first it hadn't been so bad. He'd still had his wide, pointed steel hat. The rain had been just a sound above his head and a slick impediment beneath his fireproof boots. That is, until that damnable roc had scooped it off his head. As if that weren't bad enough, the gigantic bird had cackled mockingly at him like a gleeful magpie; waving its shiny new prize at its former owner. Parcher had at least been able to take some small satisfaction in summoning the lightning that cut that shrieking laughter short. His own delight was equally short-lived however, as the roc and his hat had fallen into the ocean that surrounded Parcher's damp personal hell.

But even then, Parcher had been able to cast a spell to evaporate the downpour directly above him. Lamenting his lost hat, he had simply trudged onward on his dismal search; contemplating why a roc, birds who were usually associated with deserts, would be out over the ocean and this miserable excuse for an island. Different worlds, different behavior, he supposed.

His mind wandered back to thoughts of deserts over the next few days. Their dryness. Their lazy, comforting _heat_! Their heat was nothing compared to the lava flows he preferred, but there was a comforting smoothness to deserts that appealed to him during his ordeal.

It had been a week since he had arrived on the extrusion that his _masters_ had dared to call an island, and his ability to cast spells had declined as his supplies had run out. The worst of it was, new provisions were just a step away. Even if he didn't step between worlds, there was sure to be something that could sustain his fire locally. But, to Parcher's despair, the ones he took orders from had forbade him from 'walking away until his task was complete; ensuring it with the metal band magically sealed around his neck, which caused him excruciating pain each time he tried to planeswalk or even teleport without their permission.

This was punishment, he knew, for nearly destroying the last item. But Parcher was a destroyer, a reveler in chaos and freedom. They had sent a man whose very life force was sustained by fire to do careful and precise search work. The very idea of it was absurd. But absurdity had apparently been their only option.

Now Parcher sat beneath a small stone overhang, rocks piled around him in crude, ineffective walls; staring gloomily at the rain and lamenting his changed fortune.

Not so long ago, a mere two hundred years or so, none of this would have bothered him. Rain, cold and hunger had been distant, forgotten concepts. His body had been an extension of his mind. With a thought, he could heal his hurts and change his form as easily as stepping across the planes of the multiverse. He had been a planeswalker!

He still was, to a certain degree. But the nature of planeswalking had changed. While he had been visiting his native plane of Lorwyn, trying to rekindle the flames of his much changed brethren, something far more monumental had occurred on his adopted home of Dominaria. Time rifts had opened on the sites of major magical events, bringing horrors from the past and elsewhere forth; and threatening the stability of the plane, as well as other planes. Dominaria was at the near center of the multiverse, if there was such a thing, and events there rippled throughout eternity. The disaster had been averted, but at the cost of many of his fellow planeswalkers, whose lives and sparks they had sacrificed for the greater good. But in doing so, they had changed what it meant to be a planeswalker. No longer were Parcher and his peers near godlike in their abilities. Instead they were mostly merely mortal mages who could 'walk between worlds, though not with the ease they had before.

All this was made clear to him roughly a hundred years ago by Teferi, a 'walker who had given up his spark, and was now a travelling storyteller. How the human had managed to live so long without the godlike powers he no longer possessed was a mystery to Parcher. He supposed it had something to do with the brand of time magic the man practiced. The garrulous wizard had greeted him like an old friend, though they had only met a few times in preparation for Urza's assault on Phyrexia; a campaign which neither had taken part in, though only Teferi had had a choice in the matter. Parcher had been ousted because, as Urza had put it, the rest of them "did not put much stock in his sanity."

Parcher's mouth turned downward in a sour expression at the memory. He had only wanted to take part in torching that twisted abomination of a world. To ignite glistening oil fields and watch as they burned, and screeching metal horrors blazed. To learn the Obliterate spell from Urza and use it in his last hour to die in a glorious conflagration! Any self-respecting aficionado of destruction would desire the same.

It wasn't as if the other party members were any saner than he was. Tevesh Szat was a madman obsessed with bringing silence to the world who, paradoxically, chose to take the form of a monstrous and many-tentacled dragon. Not to mention Urza himself, particularly if what Teferi had told him about the events in Phyrexia was true: murdering his companions, including Szat, after the draconic pretender's own betrayal, and using them to charge his ultimate weapons.

But Parcher was denied their fate, exploding to annihilate the ancient enemy of Dominaria. Instead, he was slowly guttering out on an island in the middle of nowhere on Azoria. Not that there was much of anywhere on Azoria anyway, as most of its few islands had been destroyed in a planeswalker duel between Szat and the self-styled half-elven "goddess" Freyalise. But time, and perhaps a guilty planeswalker, had healed those wounds somewhat.

Tired of dwelling on the past, Parcher turned his mind to more pressing matters. He was relatively certain that his masters would not allow him to die. A slave he might be, but one not easily replaced. Planeswalkers were just as rare as ever, but much more difficult to find when their presence was not a beacon of power for hundreds of leagues. Parcher just happened to be noisier than his younger peers.

Yet the question of how to complete his task remained. His usual methods, namely explosions, would do little good here. Even if one revealed the artifact, the size of detonation needed would undoubtedly flood the crater, leaving him completely exposed; not to mention possibly damaging the object. If he survived long enough to deliver it, there was bound to be more pain doled out for his recklessness than he cared to endure.

As he wracked his memory for a spell that might be useful, the flamekin lamented not dabbling more with the other colors of magic. He'd had thousands of years to do it, but he'd been having too much fun. Although…it was never too late to learn! Looking around at his wet environs, a spark of hope ignited, quite literally, in his chest. Was a week enough time to connect to the mana here? Memories of the land were the key to mana and he was certain he would not forget this for as long as he lived; however long that would be.

Blue mana was the magic of water and the mind and control. Red was his favored color, almost by nature. And the two were usually perpetually opposed to one another. Nevertheless, blue was mercurial, which appealed to the elemental planeswalker's chaotic nature. Control was something he had been lacking lately and Parcher was eager to get it back, if only to cast a spell.

Focusing on his memories of the past week was painful, but necessary, and it was not long before he had an azure glow surrounding his fingers. Having used red mana all his long life, the feel of the islands' power was quite alien at first. But by focusing on what he needed it for, he soon developed a grudging respect for the mana that had so often been employed against him in past battles.

Inventing a spell, particularly when using unfamiliar mana, was a tricky prospect at best; especially if you weren't focused on what you wanted. Parcher would not have this problem, he was sure of it. He'd spent the last torturous week dwelling on what he wanted. His greatest desire was to be free again. But even he wasn't willing to risk magical decapitation just yet. Next on his list was getting dry again, and to do that, he needed to find the artifact his masters wanted.

His objective clear, Parcher raised his hand towards the entrance of his pathetic shelter and cast a spell of finding. A small blue sphere appeared before him. The translucent ball of light hovered momentarily, swaying in the rain in an almost reluctant manner, before zipping out of sight. In only a few minutes, the orb returned and drove itself into the middle of Parcher's forehead. In his mind's eye, he followed the path his spell had taken as it sought out all signs of spellwork in the immediate area. The majority of locations he saw Parcher recognized as locations where he had performed magic over the last few days. However, at the end of the enchantment's tour of his last few days, the ball had suddenly shot high over the ground, lingering at a spot nearly five times Parcher's height above the ground. Although puzzled at first, the planeswalker soon noticed an irregularity in the rainfall. The droplets slid down the side of an invisible, many-sided object floating in midair.

A grin split Parcher's rocky visage. This was it! He recognized the shape from his earlier acquisitions. It was another dodecahedron.

The question now became of how to retrieve it. The two previous twelve-sided items had each been comparatively easy to find. The first, on Wildfire, had been removed from wherever it lay originally and was being used in a ritual by djinn of the Emberwilde Order. With his anger at his enslavement still hot, Parcher had had no problem using Wildfire's potent red mana to incinerate the spirit. The djinn's followers proved slightly more troublesome; chasing him through half of the city of Rubaii before he had enough time to focus on planeswalking away. The second item was venerated in an ancient temple on the plane of Kolbahan. Rather than face any traps, Parcher had taken a more direct approach, and simply blasted his way in. Like the djinn's acolytes, the temple's monks objected to his intrusion. Or so he assumed. Of those left alive, most had been trapped under debris. But their moans of pain _had_ had a decidedly angry tone.

In both cases Parcher had also had advanced intelligence of where they were located. His captors evidently employed agents on Wildfire, Kolbahan, Azoria and, Parcher assumed, the rest of the planes which once formed the Shard of Twelve, a formation of planes which had sealed Dominaria and eleven other planes off from the rest of the multiverse during the Ice Age caused by Urza. It had been one of these agents who had informed Parcher of the item's location: the former site of one of Azoria's few artificial structures above the waves. An immense tower had stood where Parcher now crouched.

It was now perfectly apparent that while the tower had been leveled, the dodecahedron had remained stationary; held aloft by whatever magic concealed it from sight.

His initial joy at the artifact's discovery faded quickly as he realized what it would take to acquire it. Though he had access to a wealth of blue mana, Parcher wasn't willing to risk another invented spell. To reach it, he would have to contact a source of red mana. The problem was not finding one: nearly every living world had liquid fire lying just beneath its rocky surface. However, the effort of locating it and bringing it to the surface could extinguish his already dampened flames.

On the other hand, if the magma did make it to the surface it would both recharge his mana reserves and provide him with plenty of nourishing fire. Seeing no other way, Parcher burrowed around his miniscule refuge until he found some loose rock and dirt. As he sank his flinty fingers below the surface, he closed his eyes and sent his mind probing below the ground for veins of molten rock. Azoria's oceans were deep and Parcher's spire extended all the way to the ocean floor far below. As his thoughts wormed their way through dormant mana lines, Parcher comforted himself that there was probably no one in the multiverse that could do this as easily, or as quickly, as he could. After all, it was he who had been the one to teach the first Bogardan embermages the secrets of volcanic energy. Even so, by the time he located the lava he needed, his inner flame was beginning to smoke, which was never a good sign. Truly desperate now, Parcher bent all his thoughts towards drawing the life-giving magma to him.

Just as he was beginning to feel faint, a small pool of slag began pooling at his feet; melting his fireproof shoes. But Parcher was far too ecstatic to care, as the warmth of the lava pooling around his ankles spread up and into his entire being. Steam poured off his frame as the dampness that soaked it evaporated. Calling more to the inferno beneath the surface, the flamekin cast another evaporation spell over himself and stepped out into the rain; his stony limbs cracking as he flexed them. Utterly giddy, he kicked his legs about as he had seen human children do in water puddles.

His strength and mana replenished, Parcher fixed his eyes on where he knew his objective floated. Leaping atop his shelter, he lifted his four-fingered hands aloft, one of which he used to make an obscene gesture at the storm that had tormented him. The other he clenched into a tight fist, aglow with red mana. Pulling more lava forth, Parcher held it just below the surface until he was unable to hold the pressure any longer. A geyser of liquid fire erupted beneath him, launching his quickly disintegrating platform high in the air. With practiced ease, he guided the torrent of magma towards his target. Arranging the column to fly beneath the artifact, Parcher reached up and gently took hold of it. He let his control of the volcanic fount waver and lowered himself to the ground.

The relic tucked safely under one arm; he raised the other to the collar at his neck and pressed a finger to a powerstone set in its side.

"I have it," he grated, his voice even more gravelly than usual due to disuse.

As he waited for a response from a man an entire plane away from him, Parcher couldn't help being impressed by the magic and construction involved in such a feat; despite its role in keeping him enslaved.

After a several minutes, the powerstone began to glow. An irritatingly friendly voice issued from it, perfectly audible above the rain.

"Very good, very good! Please return at once. We have a _hot_ beverage waiting for you!"

Ignoring the man's clumsy attempt at humor, Parcher acknowledged the order and began the familiar process of reaching between worlds. Before the Mending, planeswalking could be accomplished at the speed of thought. These days however, things worked a bit differently. The flamekin likened it to swimming against a lava flow, rather than moving in a standing pool of magma.

Making the transition was also more difficult, though Parcher's many-sided prize would make things easier. As best he could tell, these artifacts were some sort of mana-channeling devices. That and his recent infusion of mana meant that the planeswalker was soon soaring through the Blind Eternities, the shifting, dazzling expanse between planes.

Although distance was difficult to determine amid the æther, the planes that had once made up the Shard were all relatively close together, so Parcher was able to return to Dominaria relatively quickly. He paused and looked down at his adopted home. Like Azoria, it was covered mostly in water. However, Dominaria was quite a bit larger, which made its many massive landmasses appear deceptively small from above. He had spent a long time here, and on other planes in the Shard, besides Azoria, during the millennia he and other 'walkers had been cut off from the rest of the multiverse. Yet in all that time he had never once considered going where he had to now.

Grimacing in resignation, Parcher locked his glowing orange eyes on Dominaria's massive arctic continent. The temperatures there were so frigid and inhospitable, that few cultures had survived long enough to even name the place, or at least share that name with the rest of the world. Most Dominarians simply called them the "Arctic Wastes." As he focused on a specific point on the landmass, a small, lone mountain backed by a frozen lake, Parcher let the Eternities slip away, steeling himself for the inevitable cold.

Snow formed itself around his feet as he materialized on the ground. The flamekin shivered; setting his joints clacking together like a sudden rock fall. Glancing up, he eyed the small mountain warily. Despite a desire to reconnect with one of the few places he could call home, he did not dare draw mana from that solitary peak. It had an air of decay about it that made him nervous. Thankfully, he had a fresher source. With a mild flick of his wrist, he erected an insubstantial barrier to keep out the cold.

"At least it's not snowing," he grumbled to himself as he set off towards a nearby building in the mountain's shadow; the wind blowing his flames in a bizarre imitation of humanoid hair.

The building was without question the largest on the continent. Not that there was much to contest it. Most of the inhabitants of the Wastes eked out a living in small, dome-roofed huts made of snow. The structure before him, though comprised of the same building material as those dwellings, was not even especially large. It resembled nothing so much as an average sized town hall from the outside, albeit magically held together with snow.

Cursing the wards that prevented him teleporting directly inside, Parcher trudged up to a set of ornate doors (also made of snow), which opened without touch. The inside was little more than a large lobby, with small doors leading off to barracks, a kitchen and a large larder. The hall was dotted with small urns, each glowing with heat and light from the red ball of mana contained within. That the surrounding snow did not melt was evidence of further enchantment.

The amount of magic infused into such an inconvenient location puzzled him. If it was a mere hiding place, there were many more comfortable options to choose from.

"Welcome my friend," his ebullient master called to him from the side of the room.

Giving a half-hearted wave in return, Parcher wove his way between urns and the small work tables that dotted the room. Crouched around each were skilled mages and tough-looking fighters of many races. As he approached the one to whom they all answered, the planeswalker could not have imagined a more unlikely leader if he tried.

Waiting for him by a large, mostly decorative, fireplace (again made of snow) stood an average-sized elderly human. The man wore plain, brown robes like those worn by a monk. Indeed the only thing unusual about him at all was his white hair, which he wore parted; leaving a long bunch of locks to frame his face on the right side. In addition, it was swept up on the sides, in a bizarre imitation of a bird's wings.

The monk's eyes fell on the artifact and he cleared his throat at a passing turbaned wizard.

"Do take Parcher's hard won find and put it with the others won't you Daskar?"

Parcher held out his hand, never taking his eyes off the affable man who had enslaved him. That such an unassuming person had managed to assemble an interplanar organization with this many strong spellcasters nearly sent his spine rattling.

Unaware or unconcerned by his underling's wariness, the old man lifted a pair of goblets from the mantle of the fireplace, offering the one that was steaming. "Mulled kerosene mead! Your favorite, if memory serves." As Parcher accepted his cup with a terse nod, the priest continued, "A toast then! May our bounty enrich our days."

The flamekin and human touched cups the former taking a few steps back before pouring the potent drink down his fiery gullet. The surge of heat that followed would have burned the absurd hair from the monk's head had Parcher been closer.

Nodding again, he addressed his master formally, "Thank you for the drink taer."

"Hm? Excuse me?"

"Sir. Thank you for the drink _sir_ ," Parcher corrected, chiding himself for using Lorwyn jargon.

"Oh, there's no need for ceremony man! Just call me Orison. Everyone does."

"As you say."

He knew for a fact that this was untrue. Of the few other members of this group he had dealt with, Orison was inevitably referred to as "the high priest," "the master" or some derivation thereof. The opposite was nearly always true of most hierarchies. Familiar names and disparaging nicknames were used when subordinates were among themselves. It was almost as if the priest's underlings were trying to correct for their leader's flippant broach of this implicit protocol.

Orison finished off his drink and replaced it and Parcher's on the white mantelpiece.

"Come my boy," Orison said, giving him a friendly clap on the arm, apparently unaffected by the heat, "It's time I show you what we're working towards. You of all people should not be kept in the dark!"

The flamekin risked rolling his eyes and followed the cheery monk towards the entrance. Boy indeed! He was probably older than the mountain behind them. As they approached the door, he caught subtle, oddly sympathetic looks from a few others. Judging by their expressions, whatever was coming was probably not something he was going to like.

Passing out of the hoary hall, the pair stepped out onto the snow, which was nearly undisturbed. Parcher took a few steps toward the designated teleport point before he noticed that Orison wasn't following him. Looking around, he spied the monk's robe disappear behind the side of the building.

As he caught up, he asked, "Is the mountain our destination then?"

"Indeed it is!" the elderly human replied, a note of pride in his voice.

"Why build your headquarters so far away?" Parcher asked, if only to fill the silence as they trudged through the snow.

Orison raised a dubious eyebrow at the planeswalker. "I'd have thought that was obvious my friend! The mountain! Oh, we tried building right up against it, even into it at first. But the men had…dreams. Some were affected in less than favorable ways. We found that our current location keeps the mountain's influence to a minimum."

"And whatever's in the mountain is what we're going to see?"

"The power of the mountain is not a _what_ , Parcher, but a _who_."

Parcher's unease was not soothed by this. Despite his heat spell, his frame still rattled at the malevolent presence before them. They neared and a cave loomed ahead of them; a sinister maw ready to envelop them in gloom. Once inside, they needed no torch, as Parcher's flames kept back the darkness. As he examined the surrounding rocks, Parcher decided he was wrong before: this mountain was a few thousand years older than he was. Flamekin were born of the mountains and knew their ages and temperaments well. This mountain was sick, if one could call it that. And only particularly powerful black-aligned magic could cause this sort of eldritch corrosion to the bones of the earth.

They walked for what seemed like twenty minutes before they reached a long corridor. The presence loomed before them and Parcher had never wished to be left ignorant more than he did then. This was a secret he didn't want to know.

The wall ahead shone, but not with the odd twisting sheen of the blackened halls that had preceded it. Rather there appeared to be solid ice blocking their path. Orison halted before it and bowed reverently. Following his example, Parcher gave a nervous, jerky bow.

Orison addressed someone unseen. "I have brought our planeswalker. Someone as integral to our endeavor needs to know who he works for, don't you think?"

 _Yes_ , said a voice as soft as a whisper and as menacing as distant thunder, _yes you have done well_ … _Orison_? _I will inspect him_.

A palpable darkness flowed out of a split in the ice Parcher had overlooked. The shadow shifted and took the rough outline of a limb, though whether it was arm, leg, or tentacle he couldn't tell.

Disbelief filled his mind, hopeful to find any excuse that this was not real.

"You're a myth!" Parcher breathed, steadying himself against the side of the cavern. "Just a story!"

 _Dominaria has many stories, walker of the planes. Though I am not its oldest, I am its greatest!_ the voice sighed thunderously.

Orison gave an entirely inappropriate chortle, proclaiming, "I knew it! Out of everyone we've brought here, I knew he'd be the one to recognize you!"

 _They were young, priest. As you were young when we first met._

"True, very true," the monk nodded affably, patting his stomach.

"What do you w-…what are those _things_ for? What are you _doing_?" Parcher murmured, casting his glowing eyes about in panic.

 _I am doing what I have tried to do for millennia, walker of the planes. I wish to be free! As free as you…or as free as you once were._

"It's all been going swimmingly!" Orison beamed, "With Parcher's help, we'll have you out before long now."

The flamekin felt ill. More ill than he had on Azoria. Dread at the thought of his true master's release saturated him. If even a fragment of the legends were true, he could not allow this to happen. But how to accomplish it? He still wore the collar and the one who controlled it was bound to be one of the beings right in front of him.

 _What troubles you?_ the voice of nightmares inquired.

"This is-…a lot to take in," Parcher managed. "I will need time to process it."

"Surprises can have unexpected effects," Orison said sagely, "Why, I remember that poor fellow who tried-"

The monk continued prattling, but Parcher tuned him out. The collar. How to get rid of it? Even if he broke it, the thing was made of Thran metal, so it would only grow back. No, the key was the powerstone and how it induced pain in him. Flamekin were not constructed like flesh creatures. But despite the difference in material composition, the common element between them was the mind. If he could dull the pain center of his brain, it could give him time to cast the necessary spells. And it was fortunate that he had just that day learned how to use the color of magic best suited to this task.

Scratching his tripartite chin as nonchalantly as he could, Parcher let a puff of blue flame escape his mouth to mask the blue glow on his fingers.

"Excuse me," he said, feigning embarrassment, "Mead must not be sitting well.

"Quite understandable," Orison nodded, "That wine isn't settling as well as I'd hoped either. The merchant swore it was made from a crop before the Phyrexian invasion, but I'll have a few words with him the next time I'm in Orvada. Now then, shall we go up then Parcher?"

"No," he replied flatly, moving to block the exit, "I think you'll be staying here for a bit."

"Agree to disagree," the priest shrugged. A wave of his hand locked Parcher's legs to his chest and his arms to his sides. "You must try to be more agreeable, my flamekin friend."

He drew out a small, bronze-colored device with a powerstone set in its middle and touched the center.

Parcher felt a faint tickle at the back of his head, but decided to play along to buy himself time. Writhing in feigned pain, he called on the memories and mana he needed. The endless, burning seas of Wildfire, the lava flows of Bogardan, and the volcanic eruptions of Shiv that helped create the metal around his neck. Even the cankerous mountain around him offered a measure of mana. Finally he thought of Mount Tanufel, the birthplace of all flamekin and the place where his spark had ignited and shown him even more worlds to cause havoc in.

By now the shadow and its chief acolyte had noticed something was wrong. Parcher's flames were burning white hot.

 _Cease this folly little 'walker_ , the voice rumble-hissed, _I will not have a useful tool wasted in a futile gesture._

"You made a mistake, priest," Parcher exulted, the intensity of his magic shearing through his binding, "You've given me the thing I've wanted most: an enemy worth dying for!"

Orison appeared to have realized his misjudgment, for he had been mumbling something while the glowing planeswalker had been speaking.

"-my names from my enemies, and let me draw from the well of power."

As the monk finished, a cloak the color of murky blue flowed around him. Parcher noticed then that the thing in the wall had not been black, but this same shade of dark cobalt.

The heat around him grew stronger, the rotting walls of the tunnel practically melting from it. He knew he was going to die. That was always the plan. Yet here at the end, he felt more alive than ever before! His previous godlike powers had been missing this raw, primal feeling of destruction. Pure fire split his skin into veins of volatile brilliance.

The fiend and its acolyte shied away, the latter mumbling, "Oh dear."

His body coming apart at the seams, Parcher held his bursting arms aloft; a savage grin on his swelling face. He may have missed the invasion of Phyrexia, but this victory was _his_! And though it was no sylex blast…he hoped Urza was watching, wherever dead planeswalkers went.

The mountain exploded. Shrapnel the size of horses erupted into the air. The snow was liquefied by a violent rainbow blaze, before evaporating just as quickly. A cloud of ash and dust covered the sky for miles around. None of the region's few trees remained standing and each was largely indistinguishable from the dregs of a campfire.

Many magicians could create fire of different colors. Few could have made the burns caused by those fires to be a variety of hues, as he had done to the explosion's impact zone. Parcher had made his mark.

* * *

The monk clambered out of the multi-colored, lake-flooded blast crater, still wrapped in his dark blue cloak of power. Dispelling it, he surveyed the snow hall. Unlike most things in the vicinity it was still standing. Its wards and protections had been enough to prevent most of the damage, though its surface was covered in dust and dotted by more than a few small holes.

"Well this is a fix and no mistake!" he frowned, surveying the damage with his hands on his hips, "It's Upper Videnth all over again…but without the lhurgoyfs, thank goodness!"

Worried for those still in the hall, he hurried to it and helped where he could. Several broken bones needed healing and poor Daskar would probably lose the leg. While rummaging through the supply closet for something the soon-to-be one-legged wizard could use as a crutch, he felt the connection return.

 _I cannot afford a setback at this stage_ , the voice that had first spoken to him in dreams said. It was barely a whisper now. _I did not imagine he could destroy even that vestige of my power. Without that remnant, our communication will be more difficult._

"To be sure, to be sure," he mumbled, eying a nearby broom before dismissing it with a shake of his head, "We'll have to relocate soon. Still, we must take the good with the bad: Parcher was bit raucous for our needs."

 _You are an eternal optimist. In this we are alike…Orison? Orison, Orison…why did you choose this name?_

'Orison' smiled. "It means 'prayer.' I had hoped someone would understand the connection, but I suppose it's a bit archaic for the company I keep nowadays."

 _I see. A name to follow function. How apt. Yet, the man of the flame kindred is not easily replaceable._

Seeing his search was futile, the priest resolved to ask one of the nature druids to grow a suitable crutch from the nearest tree; however far away that was.

"Ah, but he _is_ still replaceable!" the old cleric replied smugly, "We still have the necromancer."

The presence in his mind seemed to give a pleased sigh. _Yes, I had nearly forgotten her. It will take time for our message to reach her though. Put more effort into pursuing leads on Dominaria while we wait for her. I must depart now, this taxes my mind._

Bowing to the one he served, the monk replaced his hands in the sleeves of his habit and rejoined the rest of the hall, humming absentmindedly.


	2. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Jhoira stood at the edge of her world. She was perched on the tip of a large spire of rock which jutted out of the ground like an enormous claw; the wind ruffling her red-streaked dark hair. When she had been a young woman, little more than a girl really, she had stared out at the ocean from a similar outcropping, on a similar island, which housed a similarly named academy, and dreamed of finding her soul mate. It had taken her over fourteen centuries, but she had found him. Now she no longer stared at the sea and dreamt of what might be, but instead gazed at what she had.

The Academy of Tolaria West lay sprawled out before her. It seemed that no matter how long she lived, Tolaria would always follow her. Properly speaking, the school below her was the fourth place of learning to bear the name, if one included the _New Tolaria_ , which had been a ship. The current incarnation was situated on a small island barely off the coast of the longest of the Spice Isles, an archipelago often used by sailors as a stopover between the Terisiaran nations and the Domains. Though it had once been the raised end of a peninsula, an enterprising sea mage had flooded the lower area further inland, forming the lesser island and numerous saltwater bogs and lagoons.

The edge facing the sea was ringed by a wall of jagged outcroppings, like the one Jhoira now stood atop. The treacherous crescent of stone thorns, nicknamed "the Hedge" by the students, discouraged any ships from approaching by sea. She doubted they were natural. They predated the academy's founding two hundred years ago. It may have been that they were one of the few remnants of magical interference among the Spice Isles. The island chain was aptly named, for it was rich in a wide variety of spice crops. As such, it had held little interest to wizards and their ilk for thousands of years; although pirates had found plenty of reasons to pillage them.

Perhaps it was the lack of magical interest that had led a group of Argivian wizards and scholars, some of whom were descended from Jhoira's girlhood peers at the first Tolaria, to settle here. The Argivian influence was most evident in the buildings, which were mostly constructed of white stone. Argivian was also the language most commonly spoken, though it also held this distinction worldwide; albeit with different regional dialects. The Brothers' War and Urza's subsequent campaign to thwart Phyrexia's invasion ensured that Dominaria would always remember the tongue of its mad longtime guardian. That it was a simple, direct language and easy to use in trade, may also have had something to do with it.

Jhoira's own relationship to Urza and status as a living survivor of the first Tolaria had earned her immediate awe from the current academy's founders when she and her husband had arrived over a century ago. Although they had tried to alleviate that sort of hero-worship by teaching a history class together, they had still been pestered outside the classroom. Eventually they just let the new students ask as many questions as they could during the assembly at the beginning of the year. Despite this, she still caught older students, and some gray-bearded scholars, sneaking in.

"Speaking of which…" she muttered, drawing a watch from within her usual Ghitu attire. She could afford to be late to the meeting, she knew her spouse and the wide-eyed students would forgive her, yet she still disliked taking advantage; both of her students' admiration and her partner's goodwill.

She was just starting down from her perch on the crag, when a rumble sounded behind her. Turning back, she saw a storm approaching. Squalls were not uncommon here. A few even had acidic rain, that proved detrimental to any artifacts left in the open; save those made from Thran metal, a product of her native Shiv. However, few thunderheads Jhoira had seen moved with such speed or intent as the one now heading for the academy. As the unnatural cloudbank approached, a twisting cyclone emerged; winding its way sinuously towards the shore. A person hovered in the whirlwind's midst and traveled along its length like water through a tube.

Following the impromptu visitor's flight path, Jhoira estimated their touchdown point and hurried down the slope, rocks clattering beneath her booted feet. Although it was too late to disable the island's perimeter spells if the stranger was friendly, in either case she wanted to greet them when, or if, they arrived. As the cyclone passed into the largest gap between the crags, hidden spells came to life and launched a barrage of different magical energies at its occupant. Jhoira nearly stumbled when she saw them all pass through the woman, for she was now close enough to see the intruder's profile. She came to a halt at the corner of a large outbuilding and examined the new arrival as their feet touched the ground.

The wind-riding woman had skin the color of bronze and wore an elegant, yet practical dress. At her waist hung an ovoid bottle and what looked to be a twisted, snake-like blue instrument with three flared bells for sound to exit, whose purpose, if non-musical, Jhoira could not guess at. The stranger fixed her proud, serious visage on the Ghitu woman and approached her; using a long, blue staff covered in scales or cracks to navigate the uneven terrain.

"Young lady," she called in heavily accented Argivian, "I must speak with your master."

"We have no masters on Tolaria West, madam," Jhoira replied, crossing her arms and leaning against the nearby building, "Nor any servants! We all work together towards our goals."

"Yes, yes," the woman waved dismissively, "but you have teachers and students, and I seek one of your head teachers, Jhoira the ageless Ghitu."

Smirking wryly, Jhoira said, "Then you are in luck, for she and her husband will be addressing the latest arrivals. They take the first assembly to answer questions from new students. I'm sure they won't mind some from a visitor like yourself…"

"Linessa," the wind mage supplied.

"Well, if you'll accompany me _Linessa_ , I can show you to the assembly hall."

"My thanks," came the stiff reply, as the two women set off down a nearby path towards the main buildings, which were easily three times the size of the one whose shadow they now stood in.

"May I ask who told you how to find our school?"

"It was Teferi, the Timeweaver who instructed me how to find its location," Linessa said, glancing around at the grounds.

Jhoira was disappointed she had not guessed sooner. She should have recognized her old friend's phasing spell when her new guest employed it to avoid the defenses. The fact that he had not described her to Linessa did not escape her. She would play Teferi's game though, as the woman looked as if she could stand being taken down a peg.

"What are these buildings for?" Linessa inquired, gesturing with her mottled staff.

"The academy's more experimental work," Jhoira said, pointing to another cluster off to the right, "Those are for spellwork, while the ones here are for potentially dangerous artifacts."

"I have heard tales that the original Tolaria was destroyed in an experiment with time tra-"

"Not here," Jhoira interrupted, "Not again. The most we do here are minor time manipulation spells. We have learned from the mistakes of the past."

"Just so."

"May I ask: which part of Jamuraa are you from?"

Linessa started, lifting an eyebrow at the shorter woman, "The northeast. Why?"

"Hmm, I just wanted to confirm my guess," Jhoira said evasively. She certainly did have the right coloring for the area, but something in her voice reminded her of somewhere else. Somewhere lost. Perhaps that was why Teferi had taken an interest in this mage.

The grounds were quiet at this hour, as most of the senior students had classes later, or were otherwise engaged with scholars in projects in the outer buildings. However, the noise level increased dramatically once the pair stepped through the large main entrance. A cacophony of voices echoed through the main hall from the nearby amphitheatre. Jhoira tuned out the noise and swept through the hall, Linessa keeping stride beside her.

When they arrived at the source of the din, Jhoira stood aside to let her tall companion take in the scene. The lecture hall was standard as far as most of them went: tiered rows of wooden seats, "comfortable enough to sit in, though not comfortable enough to fall asleep in," as her husband had quipped during their installation, each with a small, foldable writing space and almost all of them occupied. Jodah himself sat across from them in one of a pair of soft, comfortable chairs, watching the burbling crowd with blithe amusement.

"You should find a seat," Jhoira said, leaning close enough for the Jamuraan mage to hear her, "we'll be starting now."

"We? But-" Linessa broke off as she too noticed that the hall was rapidly quieting. Jodah had seen them and given a wave, which many of the students saw as a cue that the forum was about to begin.

Haughty eyes turned to surprise and embarrassment. " _You_?"

"Yes. Hurry along, _young lady_. I think I see an open seat near the top," Jhoira said, winking as she moved to sit next to her partner. She took his proffered hand and returned the welcoming squeeze he gave it. Even after a hundred and fifty years of marriage, such a simple gesture still sent a thrill through her. Though plenty of her colleagues had been as immortal as she was, none of her scattered relationships were as long or as intimate as theirs. Breaking contact by mutual assent, they turned to face the eager crowd of faces.

"Welcome to Tolaria West, students new…and old," Jodah began, eying a man near the back row who tried, quite poorly, to hide his silver hair under a pointed hat, "Since I'm sure you all know why you're here, I won't delay your questions. We know you all have things you wish to know, so don't bother waving your arms about. Save your strength for your first lessons. Would you like to take the first question, my dear?"

Smiling, Jhoira searched the crowd of eager faces. "You with the red hair, third row," she said, pointing.

A girl in her teens stood nervously, stumbling as she tried to fold her collapsible desk while keeping hold of her writing materials. "How…erm…how old _are_ you?"

A wave of laughter rippled up and down the aisles, along with the faint jingling of exchanged coins. The senior students who snuck in often took bets on which question would be asked first. Jhoira would be collecting on her own wager with her husband, which did _not_ involve currency, later tonight.

"We get that question a lot, as you can imagine," Jodah said once the laughter had died away, "I was born four hundred and thirteen years after the birth of Urza. This year will be my four-thousand two hundred and ninetieth birthday. And please, you don't have to get me anything."

Jhoira waited until the mixture of astonishment and mirth died away before answering. "I, meanwhile, am a mere one-thousand, four hundred and two. But after a few centuries, age just becomes a number you can trot out to impress people. Next question?"

Jodah took his turn and searched the sea of students; pointing as he made up his mind. "Yes, you with the spectacles."

Another nervous young student stood, fidgeting with his eyeglasses. "Did you know Urza Planeswalker?"

More than a few eyes rolled and the man with the silver hair grumbled loudly, "Waste of a question!"

Smiling indulgently, Jhoira replied, "Yes, we knew Urza. I spent most of my life helping him and learning from him, and from his mistakes. He was just as mad, brilliant and driven as all the stories you've heard. Whatever his flaws though, he defended Dominaria the best he could."

The student began to sit again, but Jodah cleared his throat. "I only met Urza once, a long time ago. Most of our visit was one long tale, although it felt more like a lecture."

The same student asked, "Please sir, what had you done wrong?"

Looking a bit taken aback, the archmage replied ruefully, "I see you're quick to lay the blame at my feet. No, no Urza had just returned to our world and I wanted to make it clear to him that planeswalkers had done quite enough damage to it during the Ice Age. Next?"

This continued in a similar vein for nearly an hour ("How did you meet? What was the Glimmer Moon like? How many planeswalkers have you met?") and the only truly surprising questions came near the end.

"Yes Barnabas?" Jodah inquired, glancing up at the aged scholar, who had given up hiding his hair, and raised his hand in a desperate plea to be heard.

Barnabas coughed importantly. "Thank you Archmage. I was wondering if both of you could tell us about your roles in the Phyrexian invasion?"

Jhoira raised her eyebrows. That was not a question they often got. She supposed most people were too polite to request a description of the horrors of war they thought she and Jodah must have experienced. Yet Barnabas was not the most courteous of men. There was a great stirring of interest though.

"I'm afraid we'll have to disappoint you all," Jhoira said with an apologetic frown, "Though I took part in defending the initial assault on Shiv, my friend Teferi put into motion a plan to phase part of Shiv and his homeland of Zhalfir for the duration of the war. He and I were in a sort of pocket dimension for quite some time. And-"

"And," Jodah continued, ignoring the whispers of "The lost land of Zhalfir!" that were running throughout the theatre, "I was elsewhere for the duration of the war. A place called Regatha. I was there helping an old friend of mine set up her own school. We knew there would be an invasion of course, but my friend and I had no idea when it was going to happen. Jhoira, would you care to choose what I think we'll make the last question?"

Jhoira nodded and searched the audience until she came upon their newest arrival. "I would like to hear from the striking woman from Jamuraa at the back."

A few heads turned to look as Linessa stood, looking somewhat flustered at being called out. "What do you know about nekoru?"

More heads turned at the odd question and Jhoira blinked in surprise.

"Nekoru? I've only seen one once, so I don't know how much I can tell you. They're cat dragons. They look like enormous cats with wings. They're very proud and extremely fast. I know they're native to Jamuraa and Madara, but apart from that I'm afraid my education on them is limited."

Jodah stood and clapped his hands together. "Well! We've managed to answer some questions to your satisfaction and hopefully raised a few new ones for you to investigate in your future studies. Best of luck to you all."

A hubbub erupted as students filed down the steps, some moving as if to speak to the married heads of the school. Jhoira tried to send them away with gentle, but firm looks. When the audience was nearly gone, Linessa approached the pair of them.

Linking arms with her other half, Jhoira said, "Jodah, this is Linessa of Jamuraa. Linessa, my husband Jodah."

The traveler, regal and composed once more, gave a respectful bow. "It is a pleasure to meet you, Archmage Eternal."

Jhoira knew Jodah was fighting to keep from letting his exasperation with his sobriquet show. Like her own association with Tolaria, she knew he would never shake it off; especially after using the title for over two thousand years. "Besides," she had told him once, "it's just such fun to say."

Luckily, he managed to keep such feelings to himself, though she did feel him squeeze her arm to him a bit tighter. Jodah nodded and said, "Let us discuss your dragon problem somewhere more comfortable…and private."

They both cast a disapproving eye at Barnabas, who had lingered; pretending to refasten his sandal straps. Together, they led Linessa through the length of the school, passing classrooms, laboratories, libraries, dormitories, lunchrooms, and courtyards; until they reached the base of the academy's tallest tower. The couple's offices, located just below their bedroom, were located near its very top. They had chosen the location, both for its view and its extreme inconvenience to any unannounced visitors. Anyone who chose to ignore the speaking tube at the base of the stairs would have a long climb ahead of them, during which they were sure to trigger one of several alert spells; preparing the pair for the unexpected visit and leaving the visitor exhausted by their lengthy ascension.

They ended up using Jhoira's office for their discussion. Though she usually spent most of her time in the outer labs, supervising the more dangerous projects; the academy's chief artificer still spent enough time in her office that it had its own workspace, where she worked on smaller personal projects. Jhoira took a seat on top of her desk, shooing her mobile, beetle-shaped toolbox away and examining their Jamuraan visitor even as the other woman examined her office. Centuries of experience had made her good at reading people, and she felt she could almost see Linessa's mind at work; from the way she glanced at the adjoining door to Jodah's office to Jodah himself, to the slight downturn of her mouth when she looked at Jhoira's cluttered, metal-strewn workbench against the opposite wall. Though it was not clear to her whether the wind mage disapproved of Jhoira's apparent untidiness or of artifice in general.

As Jodah stood at the side of her desk, she asked, "So, why has Teferi sent you all this way to ask me about something he probably knows just as much about?"

"Teferi?" Jodah interrupted sharply, "What's _he_ have to do with this?"

Jhoira sighed. Her husband was still not very fond of Teferi. The fact that her mischievous old friend had been particularly irritating when the two had met, during Dominaria's latest apocalypse no less, had not endeared him to Jodah. Nor to anyone else they had met during that particular adventure, herself included. But time, and the loss of his omnipotence, had healed her fractious relationship with Teferi. He had even stood with her on their wedding day in Shiv. Still, she had hoped Jodah's hostility would have faded by now.

Linessa, though she appeared startled by Jodah's vehemence, explained. "I looked first to Teferi to help solve my problem."

"Which involves the nekoru?" Jodah interrupted.

"Yes," Linessa replied, looking irritated at the disruption. "As you may know, Jamuraa is somewhat divided into three subcontinents: the West, the North, and the East. East Jamuraa has remained unexplored for countless millennia, because of its dense jungles and fierce and isolationist inhabitants. Even most fellow Jamuraans avoid it, since the inland sea allows easy trade between the North and the West. What is known, is that most of the East is ruled by catfolk and has been since the ancient times of the Thran."

Jhoira spoke up. "Please Linessa, Jodah and I already teach history and have lived through a great deal of it. Would you kindly get to the point?"

"I was coming to it," the haughty woman retorted, grinding her staff into the floor in impatience. "Recently, the cats of the East have revised their policy. Now they are expanding, attacking outside their lands. They ride into battle on the backs of nekoru."

"It seems a natural alliance," Jodah murmured, stroking his chin. "But why come to fellow mages? Why not try to recruit an army?"

"Teferi is working towards that as we speak. I sought him out in Zerapa where he had been trying to end the civil war between the native minotaurs and the city's other citizens. It was not going well. There was fighting in the streets and Teferi was difficult to find amid the chaos; as I had only heard of him from stories my family have told for generations."

"Your ancestors were from Zhalfir, weren't they?" Jhoira guessed, voicing a suspicion she had been harboring since they had met.

Eyebrows again lifted in surprise. "Yes…how did you know?"

"There were a few clues. Firstly your accent has a trace of Zhalfir in it. Also, I just remembered where I had seen your staff. During Keld's invasion of Jamuraa, a woman named Alexi who served under Teferi carried it, or one very like it," Jhoira explained, eyeing the unusual implement, "and it follows that it would stay in her family. It also goes a long way towards explaining why Teferi sent you to us and not to Radha."

"Who's-"

"It's not important," Jhoira interrupted, wanting to forgo any awkwardness. Teferi had been right not to send Linessa to a Keldon, even if Radha had fought against a nekoru. If she were a descendant of a veteran of Keld's invasion, Jhoira doubted Linessa had been brought up with a favorable opinion of Keld. Radha's own aggressive attitude would not have lent favorably to that impression. "You were speaking of why you needed mages?" she prompted.

"Yes," Linessa continued, "I sought out magical assistance because of the cats' pack leader or general. He is a very large nekoru, the alpha male of the group. They have attacked several islands in the Jamuraan Sea, one of which I was visiting at the time. I bought time for the inhabitants to flee by boat to the largest island, Aelogos, my own home. When I engaged the alpha, I cut off its wing with a focused stream of wind." She raised the curious three-horned instrument strapped to her side. "But the nekoru's limb grew back almost immediately."

"Immediately?" Jodah asked, his brow raised skeptically, "Regeneration spells exist, but they take time. Are you sure it was flesh and blood and not some kind of elemental or shapeshifter?"

"Yes. It did not reshape itself, the wing was new. I thought it could be an artifact, but the nekoru had no rider or packs to hide one in. I believe it was some kind of magic, for there was a green glow. This is why I came to you. I believe that if we can kill this dominant male, the cats will fight among themselves for new leadership."

"They may still attack anyway, once they find a new leader," Jhoira pointed out.

Linessa shrugged resignedly. "Then at least we will have bought time to mount a proper defense, should Teferi rally Zerapa. But we waste time! It has taken me too long to get here and I fear they will have attacked my homeland before we return."

Husband and wife shared a look. "You seem pretty certain that we'll be accompanying you," Jhoira said, frowning slightly. Once again she was reminded of Teferi, and his tendency to make unilateral decisions.

"There is violence being done and you can help me stop it!" Linessa snapped, giving them a challenging look. "Teferi told me you were honorable. If you think such things are beneath your concern…"

"No one's saying that," Jodah raising his hands in a mollifying gesture. "The nekoru's powers are intriguing and I-, _we_ are always willing to help people in need."

"We will need to make arrangements for our absence here though," Jhoira said, crossing her arms, "We can depart tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?!" the wind mage exclaimed, "We will need every day to trav-"

Jhoira forestalled any further objections with an impatient chop of her hand. "The trip will take minutes. It will take us the rest of today to sort out our affairs here and we should be rested before we depart. I can't imagine you've had much rest on your journey here if you came the whole way by cloud."

Lines of tension softened and Jhoira noticed the corners of the other woman's mouth turn slightly upwards; the closest thing to a smile she had seen on Linessa's face since her arrival. "I did not ride the wind all the way. I came by ship, but the sailors refused to come closer to your shores, so I had to make the rest of the distance myself."

"Yes, we've done quite a bit to discourage sailors from landing here," Jodah said, pushing himself off the corner of the desk he had been leaning on. "Perhaps we can benefit from your weather expertise, if you know any spells that might prove helpful in baffling vessels. Lunch will begin soon, would you care to join us? In my experience, food on long voyages tends to lack variety. And taste."

Linessa nodded in thanks, moving towards the door. "If all mariners are like the ones I came here with, I do not think you need to worry about baffling them. They mistook the Spice Isles for the Burning Isles and nearly left me on Urborg."

"It's a common enough mistake," Jodah assured her, his eyes twinkling as he cast a furtive glance at his wife. "It happens to the best of us. You might be surprised how often people confuse the two. I met a man from Bogardan once who took it as a complement on his cooking, which was rather spicy. Coming Jhoira?"

"I'll catch you up," she assured him, eyeing the mess on her workbench. "There are some things in my office I want to wrap up before we leave tomorrow."

Waving them out, she tried not to get worked up over Jodah's subtle reminder of a minor mistake in geography she had made centuries ago. He would have to pay for that. Smiling, Jhoira thought of their earlier bet. They _should_ rest for tomorrow, but what she had in mind was far more vigorous.


End file.
